


Reparations

by Taro_Tea



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (Jaskier wants Geralt to ride him - it's understandable), (someone hold Geralt of Rivia please), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Episode: s01e04 Of Banquets Bastards and Burials, First Time, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mutual Attraction, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining, Riding, Scenting, Self-Esteem Issues, Sex as Communication, Shame, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23477056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taro_Tea/pseuds/Taro_Tea
Summary: Jaskier’s humming to himself, already shaking away his aired grievances and running a cloth down the nape of his neck, washing away dust with warm water and dipping the fabric into the bowl again. Drops run from it; dampen and curl his hair, trail down his spine and turn to molten gold against bare skin and candlelight - and something in him stirs in want.Idiotic, wishful, damned want.Geralt is incapable of saying what he wants. Jaskier, less so. Cue sex, scars, shame - and finally talking sense, all in the haze after the unfortunate engagement party of many consequences.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 392





	Reparations

**Author's Note:**

> _Hello, all! A small **warning** \- in this fic, both characters consent to sex with each other. However, this comes in part from a sense of obligation on Geralt's part, so a warning for what can be considered dubious consent! ___

“I was offended, you know. That comment about my cock? _Uncalled_ for _._ ” 

He scrubs at his eyes, wishing the sting of rubble, dust and over-perfumed nobility out of them. Blinks the tepid, half-warmed water from them, and waits for the faint blurring to clear before grumbling a response.

“Your balls. And I rescued you.” 

Under again, dipping his face into the basin, and he scrapes back the wet hair clinging to the sides of his face when he emerges. Gathers it back in the leather tie Jaskier wrangled his hair into, before all of - _this_. 

“- did nothing for my pride,” Jaskier scoffs. “And you ruined my chances with _many_ a fair maid there, you know. Do you know how hard it was to both stem and run ahead of the tide of that tidbit of gossip?” 

And yet, here he was. Holed up once again in an inn - this one, thankfully, with clean bedding and an amenable keeper - in a shared room with Roach stabled and far enough from the Cintran walls for some tension to begin leaching from the muscles of his jaw.

  
  


***

“I’m leaving.” 

“Now come on! That’s barely an answer, you’re _leaving_ me here with - with glass still stuck in your arse? I’ve an _epic_ of a ballad to write!” 

He made a grab at him, and missed. Held onto Roach’s stirrup with obvious determination instead - and Geralt, desperate as he may have been to get the fuck out of Cintra, didn’t intend to crush his fingers underfoot.

“You had company.” He forced the words out, gestured roughly at the lights rekindled in the night-shrouded city. “Dark haired woman?” 

“Irrelevant.” Jaskier shook his head frantically, squinted at him in the dark of the stable as though he were the one capable of seeing with only the faintest of light. “Where are you going?” 

“Away,” he grunted, and led Roach forwards with Jaskier jogging at her flank. 

Out of Cintra, out of this mess. Back into his own clothing and bedroll in the open without scheming mages and royalty and the stench of nobility scrambling to trample each other underfoot and reach the peak of their own shitty pile. 

“Geralt! _Geralt!_ ”

Jaskier grabbed his arm. It took - effort. To not throw him off, when every inch of his skin burns and itches from poison and his eyes ache, every touch magnified and digging into the flesh and muscle and bone underneath. But he didn’t. He won’t. 

“Just -” he softened his voice, pleaded. “Just come back. Not to the castle, Calanthe might murder you if you trot back in there, honestly - but somewhere that isn’t a muddy, dark ditch under a tree.” 

He didn’t pull his arm free, and Jaskier took that as encouragement. “Look, Geralt - one night more, hm? I can get materials to fix my lute, tie up loose ends, and I’ll be at your side and ready to venture on come mid-morning.”

He considered it. 

“Fine.” he muttered, and Jaskier sagged in relief, releasing his arm and shifting his pack onto his shoulders.

Their way was blocked by the stable owner, and his hands tightened on the worn leather of Roach’s reins. Jaskier came to a halt behind him, his horse nickering over his shoulder, nosing into his periphery. 

“You’re not paid up.” He lifted his chin, scowling, and gave Jaskier a cursory glance before glaring up at the part of Geralt’s face not hidden by his hood. 

“Two nights. No additional services. I’ve given my due.” His voice was low, less than intimidating, and the owner took it as invitation to push further.

He stood his ground, pox-scarred and stout and admittedly determined. “It’s double for a witcher.” 

Jaskier spluttered, as if he were offended. “Now, there’s no need for this kind of - “ 

He punched him. 

“Oh. Well, that deals with that.” Jaskier picked over the crumpled oaf and his bleeding nose lying against the hay bale delicately. Unafraid, and yet squeamish. The most contradictory travel companion he’s had, not that the list is extensive.

“You’re not usually one for - ah - petty squabbles? I thought you’d rather avoid them, all diplomatic-like.” 

“I did avoid it.” And sapped some of the roiling frustration seething under his skin, to boot. 

“That’s - fair, I suppose.” Jaskier brushed past him, eyes alight and a grin already back over his face. “Well? Come along, my dear witcher. We’ve lodgings to ferret out.” 

  
  


***

“I’ve lost that bounty of a payment, my lute got flung against a _wall_ , the poor dear; I’m quite possibly going to be known as a eunuch amongst the women of this fine city, that kind of thing spreads, you know -”

Jaskier prattles on, and it all sinks like stones into his gut as he works his boots off his feet. 

He brings a heaping of shit wherever he goes, on top of whoever has the misfortune to stand close enough. Pavetta, Jaskier, the child yet to be - all in one night. He raises his head, opens his mouth to form an apology; some attempt at an acknowledgement of the disaster he brings where he crashes through, including Jaskier’s path. 

And it dries in his mouth like dust, settling at the backs of his teeth and stinging at the cracks of his lips. 

Jaskier’s humming to himself, already shaking away his aired grievances and running a cloth down the nape of his neck, washing away dust with warm water and dipping the fabric into the bowl again. Drops run from it; dampen and curl his hair, trail down his spine and turn to molten gold against bare skin and candlelight - and something in him stirs in want. Idiotic, wishful, damned want. 

“Have I missed something? Tell me it’s not blood, please -” Jaskier scrubs at his back, straining his arm to reach for the skin between his shoulder blades. “Come on, what is it?” 

It’s the thrill after fighting. The burning energy from running and anger and frustration - and that’s _all_ that it can be. All that it is. 

He sees himself in the still water, and there’s a set to his face. Not similar to that which he’s seen in a darkened window, facing down that last angry horde of townspeople, all too eager to drive him out when he had risked staying an additional night after his contract. 

“Yes, yes, I know, I’ve less to complain of than those limping home with broken bones and bloodied clothing tonight - but no _women_? Even you must be feeling that loss, hm?”

“I’m sorry. I’m -” His voice peters halfway through. 

Jaskier turns, curious, his hands still working over the ties of that fanciful doublet. “What’s that, now?” 

“I’m - here. If you needed it. Relief.”

He nearly convulses when the words reach his own ears. It’s - incomprehensible. The strangest thing he could have said, asked, offered, and he briefly considers leaving and saddling Roach and _running._

There have been - hints. Moments, over the months spent travelling together. Times when they'll stand a little closer than they should, move into each other's space. Ride Roach when the packs are light enough, Jaskier's chest pressed to his back, dramatically slumped forwards in exhaustion and lulled by the easy rock of Roach's gait. 

The alcohol, the buzzing thrill of a fight, the fear that bade him run...they're the impetus for this last bridging of that carefully maintained gap. 

“Are you - is this an honest offer?” 

He readies himself for disgust, to brush this away as an attempt at some of the humor Jaskier’s been trying to teach him of in the past few months. But he won’t lie to him. 

“Yes,” he mutters, splashes more water over his face needlessly. Penance. He can leave, come morning. Leave alone, and get as far from this city as he can. 

“ _Really?_ ” Jaskier’s face is bright and open - and he doesn’t smell of distaste. Doesn’t sound like it, either, and he nods one more time. “Then yes. A hundred times yes.” 

He opens his mouth in shock, all-consuming and deep like he hasn’t felt in years - closes it again. He doesn’t understand why Jaskier would agree. Doesn’t understand why he wouldn’t recoil, back away from him - 

The bard leans forward, a flush over his cheeks that can't be explained by the tepid water. “What’s piqued your interest, I have to ask?” 

It is _nothing_ more than an apology, and Jaskier's enthusiams can be explained by alcohol and a lack of options. He reminds himself of that, fiercely, and manages a brief lift of his shoulders, remains otherwise still and silent while his heart picks up. Like he’s fighting, like he’s drunk, like he’s about to offer a service to his - companion. 

That brings ease with it, like salve over gouges. It’s a penance, and this isn’t him _wanting._ This is a service, a use for his body that doesn’t mean his pleasure. He can rest in that knowledge, pull it like a cowl around him and a shield over the weakness bared. He can bear being selfish, if Jaskier’s the one who finds pleasure in it. 

Jaskier comes closer, something alight in his eyes and questions clear on his tongue; and somehow, he can’t bear to let this stretch on and drag further into the night with talk and - doubtlessly - negotiations. And the one, natural, looming question Jaskier will have, is already forming. He can cut it all short; and he does. With an answer and invitation.

Jaskier’s eyes widen when he strips down his trousers, kicks them from his ankles. And if he wore shock on his face before, it’s nothing to the choking noise Jaskier makes when he bends over the side of the bed.

“ _Oh._ I mean, _wow_ \- Geralt, I -”

He lies face down on the mattress, and waits silently. It’s no different than any other contract. And arguably better than fishing Jaskier from another dire situation and possible castration at the hands of a cuckolded lord. He can’t hurt Jaskier like this, tear him or grip him too tight and break fair skin beneath his nails. 

He can just take it. 

Would take it, were the damned bard doing anything but standing there, looking at him and rubbing the pad of his thumb over the jutting bone at the base of his spine. Standing and looking and touching and _not_ fucking him _,_ with the sweet smell of interest exuding from him. 

“Get on with it.”

Jaskier, of course, doesn’t.

“What would scar you here?” The bard’s fingers dance over the backs of his thighs, the pale skin of his arse. “I should very much _not_ like to meet such a lover, nor such a malicious beast.” 

Curious, even now. It’s in his voice, along with the attempt at normalcy. To make this a night akin to any other; natural conversation hidden in a voice that trembles on his usual dramatic inflections.

“A lash,” he grunts, and pushes his face into the coverings of the bed. They smell of human salt, too - everything does, now, and soap under it. Water from the young river flowing a quarter mile from the inn, sunlight and pine. 

They both know that he’s stronger. That he could push Jaskier away with no more effort than Roach flicking a fly from her quarters. And knowing that, in spite of it and in the face of the knowledge, Jaskier plants one hand on the small of his back, as if to restrain him there; to hold him down and fast and safe.

Jaskier speaks in a softer voice that spills itching over his skin, catching on the back of his neck and sendings shivers through the muscles bordering his spine. “Do you have oil in that pack of yours?”

“No.” 

The weight of his hand recedes, and he hears him wander off to dig through his pack, clinking bottles against each other from within a leather pouch. 

“Now, a lucky thing indeed that I didn’t use every drop of this in that bath -” 

He grips the sheets at the feeling of oil, pouring down over him - chamomile, again. He’s being overly generous with it, dripping over his arse and down his taint, droplets falling between his thighs. A decent amount slicks over his entrance, and Jaskier makes a pleased little hum from behind, standing over him still. Closer, perhaps, to what he actually wants, if given his choice. Dripping and delicate and attached to a beautiful maiden who could make the sun blush. Supposedly. There’s almost nothing soft in him and just barely welcoming, given some force. He can manage wet, and hot. 

“Just -” he falters, and growls with renewed vigor. “Push it in.” 

“ _Oh,_ no. No way, no thank you, absolutely not.” Jaskier - _damn_ him - babbles, as if personally affronted. “Relations between men are a more delicate thing -” 

He growls, pushes his hips back in frustration. “It’s not my first time being fucked, Jaskier. Just put your cock in me.” 

He’s too tired for shame, and Jaskier’s hands are steady where he traces the path of the oil, runs a fingertip over his sack and lingers there. 

Jaskier’s silent. Finally, for some unknowable reason, some fancy he’s taken. And then that finger pushes into him, warm and _intruding_ and he fights to stay lying on his front without ripping his nails into the sheets, shredding them and raking his fingers into the down of the mattress.

His voice is frustratingly gentle. “Do you like that?” 

“Mm.” Fucking stupid question. He’s not a woman.

Another, and he feels beaded sweat break over the backs of his legs and the space between his shoulder blades under soft blue fabric that wicks it away. Pushing inside him, twisting over each other while a gentle hand rests over his arse like he’s a horse that needs steadying. Petting him, stroking along his thighs over old scars and rubbing on his walls with the pads of his fingers, calluses against the sensitive insides of him. Massaging into one spot that sends a twitch of interest through his cock, pushed against the mattress and under the fall of his shirt. 

It seems fucking neverending, and he twists his head to glare up at Jaskier with one narrowed eye. “Damn you, Jaskier, just fuck me!”

“Never pegged you as a demanding lover, my muse.” Even now, Jaskier sounds like he’s seconds from laughter, and he’s torn between finding a familiar relief in it - or fuel to the flickering spark of something that’s almost nervous. 

He growls, buries the sound into the linens and speaks through clenched teeth and half a mouth of sheets. “Would you have me beg?” 

Jaskier’s fingers trace over his sex, and he shoves away the urge to shift away. Holds his ground, like he’s learned time and time again when he fights. Except he never turns his back on a monster or man that he intends to kill - much less bares himself to them like this; legs apart, tender skin exposed.

“No, there’s no need for that,” he murmurs, and there’s something of depth and feeling in his words, the slow pronunciation of them. “You should never have to beg. But let me touch you a moment more?”

He growls deep in his throat, and relents with a forced slump of his shoulders. Jaskier makes good on his words, given that sullen allowance, and strokes, crooks his fingers inside the heat of him and stretches him further. Cups his sack - his teeth clench - and rolls them in his hand gently, carefully, stroking some sensitive part of his taint before he lifts his hand away. 

He hears the rustle of clothing, catches the glimpse of Jaskier pulling out his prick from the corner of his eye. He can hear the sound of his breath and Jaskier’s with it, strong in different ways and from entirely dissimilar training. 

It could be done, had been done before, and he would _not_ break; even as sweat broke over his back anew, his thighs, and some uncomfortable heat rose to his face at the stretch of his hole. The width of fingers had done a great deal to loosen his entrance - a slide, rather than grating tear splitting him. Fragrant oil, sliding fragrant down his cleft and no metallic tang behind it to send his pupils shrinking, muscles rising into tensed hackles. 

“Geralt - fuck, Geralt, so tight -” 

Jaskier huffs some kind of incredulous curse, covered by the ringing in his ears, when he opens him. Slowly, hands tightening at his hips while he pushes and murmurs unneeded reassurances. Entering him, burning and heavy, and the feeling spreads from his hole to his thighs to an ache through his lower back, a weight in his gut. 

“ _Ah_ \- can I move?” Jaskier stutters, hands flexing on the spines of his hips. Bends over him, the heat of his chest radiating through space and cloth over his back, and he shoves himself back onto him pointedly. 

“Fuck me,” he says, again, and finally the bard complies. 

There are so many _words_. Praise and encouragement and amazement, and he wants to beg Jaskier to be silent, for once, for one night, and to just finish inside him and he would never have to think about this again, think about the slap of Jaskier’s slim hips against his arse or the weight of his cock -

His own lies soft between his legs, and he grits his teeth at the twitch of heat that goes through it when Jaskier lifts on his toes and pushes in, putting pressure on the front wall of his insides. It twinges, and he tries to ignore the shivering pleasure that moves through his entire pelvis. 

“Can we get on the bed? Actually up on top of the mattress?” Jaskier pants from over his shoulder. “I’m feeling a little...brutish.” 

He bites down the weight rising through his throat again, nods as much as he can with his cheek flat to the linen. “How do you want me?” 

Jaskier’s voice brightens, some eager thrill seeping in, and a small part of him hopes it won’t be too humiliating a position, something Jaskier wouldn’t ask of anyone less delicate than him. 

“Up you go! I want to see you on top with that fierce glare, oh mighty Witcher.”

_On top?_

“I’ll crush you,” he mutters uncertainly. 

“Oh, there’s a thrilling threat!” The bard grins up at him, sunny and delighted. “Enticing, Geralt, I must say. I didn’t expect it of you.” 

He’s had prostitutes do this, before. Riding him while he pins his own arms to his sides, like he’s something to be conquered; tight-jawed and clenching on him until he spills, covers himself awkwardly while they wait for payment and dismissal. But they were lithe and he’s strong, and this situation has flipped those factors entirely. 

“Won’t work,” he grunts, and hopes that he’ll drop it. 

“I - Geralt, I won’t forgive you if you don’t sit on my cock.” Jaskier tilts his chin up firmly, looking pleased with himself, and his chest aches like a knife slipped between ribs.

This is a _transaction,_ he reminds himself savagely. A physical apology, since he’s so shit at weaving words that this is his remaining option. Nothing more, and he has no right to disagree with what Jaskier asks for. 

He crawls forwards on the bed, waits for Jaskier to scramble up, pulling off fitted clothes and spreading himself out - cock stiff, and slicked with what looks like more of the oil. A smile on his face, almost disbelieving, and Geralt fixes his eyes on the inoffensive bedpost when he moves to straddle his bard-companion-friend. He lowers himself down - not fearfully, he’s had a hundred experiences more painful than a cock in his arse - but hesitantly, letting Jaskier guide himself in with a clever hand, and setting his jaw when the head of it pushes in. He had used so much oil, everything feels warm and slick between his legs.

This is an apology. 

Not many would fuck a Witcher out of unfettered choice - Jaskier must be one of those reckless few who sees it as a challenge, a bragging tale that he hopefully won’t compose any verses about. Something about the thought stings something small and aching left in the chest he’s done all he can to harden.

“Is it good?” 

_That’s irrelevant._

“Mm.” 

But for that time, with the sorcerer - he’d handed him a smooth, polished wooden thing and oil, instructed him to fuck him with it, slow and passionate and at his pace. And then himself, in the haze and the heat and smell of herbs, stretching himself achingly and pushing in, penetrated by it and tormented by his hands until he broke, back arching and skin burning at the pleasure-pain of being taken. He’d been a young witcher, fresh in the world, then.

“You _still_ won’t talk? Truly, Geralt, what does it take? _Hm, fuck, hm, fuck,_ over and bloody over.” 

He wants him to talk? Fine. 

“You’ll need a new bodyguard for any travels in Cintra.” 

Jaskier looks up at him, bemused. But he plays along, even as his hands trace over the lines of Geralt’s hips, exploring the dip of muscle and the edge of white hair. Examining him, talking to him like this is any other night, even when each touch feels like a brand that sends him biting on the inside of his cheek, including the cock buried in his arse.

“What? Is this about Calanthe, Eist - you hardly think they’d bear that much ill intent towards you? You did save that odd knight’s life, after all, and the rest of ours to boot during that” - he waves a smooth, lightly muscled arm “- magic screaming fit?” 

“No. Can’t fuck up a child’s life.” He pants, circling his hips like he’s seen women do. “Won’t.” 

“Uh - an odd time to return to the topic of your destined child, my dear Witcher.” Jaskier makes a face, but doesn’t stop him. Slows the thrust of his hips, the stroke of his hand on Geralt’s thigh, but keeps him close while he huffs out the words. 

“But I’m not sure how much choice you have in the - _oh, gods_ \- matter!” 

“Can’t. I don’t want someone’s child as forfeit.” 

“You can’t just brush aside dest-” 

“ _Fuck_ destiny.” He slams his hips down, taking Jaskier to the root, and the bard releases a wounded moan beneath him. 

“Fuck _me_ , Geralt - gods, you can ride.” 

He doesn’t like the admiration, the vague awe in Jaskier’s voice. It sets his sharpened teeth on edge, sends white hair prickling from its light dusting down his spine. 

He can’t _help_ what he wants. The touches he longs for, the things that one sorcerer with kind seaglass eyes teased out of his traitor mind to taunt him with, years ago. Filled, made whole, held in someone’s arms - 

His medallion bounces on his sternum with his movements, and he feels the weight of Jaskier’s stare on it with every small slap of metal on sweat-damp skin. It stings, more than the familiar light load of it should, and something that feels close to humiliation heats the metal around his neck. 

“Well - I don’t feel like Calanthe would hand the babe over too easily. Ah, _fuck -_ in t-truth, I can’t see her giving up so much as a _pup_ of Cintran lineage.”

He grits his teeth again and squeezes around Jaskier’s cock, feels his own pulse through the press of soft flesh on skin. Jaskier’s heart beats audibly fast, thundering along his veins, and the smell of him soaks through the sheets and spills down to spread from them over marked and scratched wooden floors. Sex and honey and varnish for his lute and wine and _everything_ that he wants to shove his face into, nose at and scent like an animal. 

“Doesn’t matter. ’m not returning.” 

Jaskier wets his lips, sucks in a breath lost to exertion and the slide of his cock. “If you in-insist. But that sorcerer -” 

“And _fuck_ what Mousesack said,” he snarls.

And regrets it in an instant, because he’s not _meant_ to turn his teeth on this man, to glare at him with the eyes he’s always tried to slant away or soften for fear of driving him off.

But Jaskier doesn’t cower away from him, much less divert his eyes from his slitted pupils, the curl of his lip to show canines longer than any man’s should be. He looks at him plain, and he gasps out soft and sweet words, more dazed and thrilled than he has any reason to be.

“On all the patrons of music, I _love_ your eyes.” 

It rings in his ears because it smells like truth; free of soured sweat or the tang of lies - but how could it be anything _but_ some rote expression, a trite proclamation for Jaskier’s real lovers? And in the face of it his senses rebel against each other, fighting and clashing and making his stomach roil like he’s eaten spoiled meat. 

There’s too much affection in this. It’s unsettling and unplanned and he doesn’t _know_ what to do with it. 

Jaskier’s murmuring some kind of praise, encouragement and delight while he tries to thrust up into Geralt, to push against his weight ineffectually with the strength of his hips - over and over until he snaps back into focus, rises and falls on him with pulsing effort of his thighs. Riding him, properly, taking Jaskier’s cock all the way in before moving nearly back to the head, sinking down again in a steady beat that quickens, has his own cock move with it and flush hard when the invasion gives way to heat and pleasure and a stirring in his belly. Low and deep, spurring him on. 

“Fuck, Geralt!” 

He’s holding onto his hips, stroking up his sides and over scars and burns. Swathes of numbed, bark-like skin to painful raised lines, flicking back and forth between feeling and nothing and _too much_ with the grip of his hands. 

“Ah, look at you, so strong -” 

_Strong._ This isn't strength. This is selfish indulgence masquerading as accountability. What real pleasure could Jaskier have from this - _him?_ His chest burns with it, and the weight of his medallion around his neck has never felt so heavy. 

“Take that shirt off, will you? I’m feeling awfully bare down here with you all...bundled up.” 

He pulls it over his head obligingly, confused. Hiding his chest, his cock - those were surely aims of his that Jaskier would be likewise inclined to achieve, if he wanted to use his hole in place of a pretty cunt, to make up in some pale way for the loss of his night with a noble lady and her smooth skin. 

But Jaskier’s eyes rove over the pigmentless hair on his chest, the knots of scars, his muscle without disgust; and land on his limp cock, eyes furrowing. It stings, despite all of his readiness, and that soft animal part of him somewhere nestled between organs and ribs _keens._

He should cover it up, perhaps lay the discarded, wine and dust-marked shirt over it -

And Jaskier licks his palm, scraping away the taste of chamomile from his tongue with white teeth, only to curl his hand around Geralt and pump him in time with every pass over the shaft of his own cock. His hand wraps around it, squeezing lightly and imitating the clench of an arse or cunt. It drags a rough, involuntary groan from him, and Jaskier - Jaskier _beams._

He’s hardening with that simple touch, cock filling in his grasp. That smooth palm with calloused fingertips, delicate fingers that have no place on something like him, and the movement of his skin sends another waft of poplar and oil from him, soaked into the skin from years spent grasping the neck of his lute, just like he’s grasping - 

“Jas-kier,” he mumbles. “I’m...”

_I don’t need it._

_I’m fine without._

_I don’t intend to compel you into some obligation to touch me - I don’t want to, when I’m already taking more than I should from simple penance._

He’d never force out a sentence like that last one. Doesn’t have the capacity for it, the ability to get through more than a clipped, informatory phrase. It’s gone, like his soft hands and dark hair and childish hope, over years that have taught him to keep his presence muted in the company of humans. Tolerable. 

He feels it when Jaskier spills inside him, warm and muted but decidedly present. Wet, slicking his insides and trailing down when he lifts himself back off, and wipes away the spend with the dirtied, discarded shirt. A second pass over, to catch the remainder leaking out, and he goes to stand from the bed, to - to do something. Something of use. 

He would - but then Jaskier’s stroking his cock, _admiring_ it. Wrapping his fingers around the girth of him, while he still kneels on the bed, his companion sitting up and reaching for him.

“I swear, you’ve a wonderful cock. Ballad-worthy, this.” 

So he may have bedded a man, before. Maybe in the time Geralt’s known him, in the gaps of time apart - maybe some of those beautiful women he praises the skills of could have been a facade glossed over truth. The way Jaskier touches him - 

He bites the inside of his cheek. This doesn’t need to go on longer, does it? Surely, Jaskier’s sated himself with the clench of his arse - and if he wants another round, he can use it again, wet and stretched out this time. He can lie down and think about their route to the next town, through backwaters grim enough to find a monster of some description to make use of himself, and bright enough, dry enough that Jaskier won’t sink into some swamp. 

“So lovely,” Jaskier breathes, and focuses on him like he intends to bring him to completion. 

“Why are you - ?” He’s not sure how to complete the question. Jaskier’s the one with the long winded soliloquies and pithy phrases, not him. 

Jaskier frowns, tilts his head to the side. “Because I want to pleasure you, of course? I’m afraid that I won’t be able to take your rather impressive cock without working up to it - and I hope you’ll forgive me for sparing my throat, much as I’d love to have you in my mouth.” 

“Why?” 

He sounds like he did as a child, questioning the world and everything teeming in it with his soft hand in his mother’s, small fingers wrapped around her elegant ones. Tilting his head back to stare into the sun coming through trees, to point out each and every bird and scuttling thing. 

“It’s hardly polite to enjoy myself as I did and not make sure that you reach satisfaction, no?” He hums, shakes his head like Geralt is being foolish, or deliberately obtuse. “I’m no lazy lordling, Geralt - although there are certainly plenty of the type to be found. There’s a reason the waters I wade are stocked with eager fish.” 

That sounds like the foundations of a lyric, and Geralt resigns himself to hearing it sung at some point. 

Then he thinks on the words themselves. To _satisfy_ him like a lover - 

He seizes the thought, strangles it and buries it. Burns and salts the figurative earth it’s interned in, because wanting gets him nothing but pain and more pain shoveled on top of that. He covers over his face with one arm, and very nearly sinks his teeth into it at the feeling of a warm, gentle lick up the side of his cock. Slumps down with his knees apart, and Jaskier takes it as invitation to shuffle forwards and nestle in between them. 

“Jas-”

A sharp breath in, and Jaskier smiles against his thigh. He can feel it, the curve of his lips and shift of muscle against the saddle-chafed skin, and resolves to swallow down any further noise. 

He’s had practice choking down burning poisons that scour his throat on their way. 

“Call me that again, won’t you?” His voice deepens, softens from a tease to something - more. “Please, my dear witcher.” 

Fuck, it hurts. 

“Jaskier,” he mumbles. 

“I’m here.” Jaskier kisses the underside of his cock - and reaches for his hand where it grips the bed coverings, slim fingers wrapping into his. A trickle of spend he must have missed drips from inside him. “I’m here, Geralt -” 

“I’m sorry.” He bursts, snatches his hands away only to push Jaskier back by the shoulders. Bare and smooth in candlelight, warm under his palms. “I’m sorry, just - just fuck me.” 

“Sorry? I feel like I’ve missed a step here. Is this not to your liking?” 

“I’m _trying_ to apologise and you’re - you’re not letting me.” 

“What could you owe me an apology for?” 

He chokes on this particular brand of poison. “Everything. This damned night. Me.” 

“Will you - can you look at me? Please, Geralt?” 

Jaskier’s request is gentle, and unexpected for it. Soothing, the kind of tone that he’d turn on Roach when she grows skittish; has done, in the dappled lights of a forest path, leaves crunching under their feet.

He doesn’t want to deny Jaskier the pleasures he wants for, no matter how strange they are to him. And with that thought borne in his mind, he lets his eyes drift down from the wattle of the walls to the dark wood bedframe, to blue eyes staring earnestly in the dim light of the room.

Jaskier draws himself up to his full height, hands planted on his thighs and a frown over perfect blue eyes. “Geralt - why are you fucking me? Tonight. Right now, specifically.”

He turns his head away, and Jaskier pulls it back with hands that have known work, in their own way. Leans over him with that furrowed brow, and the scent of honey. Determined eyes searching his face; and he can see himself plain, reflected in them. 

“Tell me?” His voice is so kind. “Please?” 

“Just - just _use_ me. I can give you that.” 

There’s a set to Jaskier’s face. A firmness, a rejection, and he has no time to decide on the nature of the sinking feeling in his chest before Jaskier cups his face, and presses his lips to his. 

They’re soft. Unchapped, smooth and plush against his mouth, and he freezes in place when Jaskier moves closer between his legs, kneeling above him and tilting his head back to pour pure emotion, something confusingly, terrifyingly sweet, into this - this _kiss._ He doesn’t break away quickly. No, he tastes him, moves his tongue along the ridge of his sharp teeth and lets his breath whistle through his nose, rubbing his thumb over his cheekbone and guiding him through it. It’s a lesson, forgiveness, empathy - all of it permeates through with the sweet honey smell of it. Like a dripping comb cracked over clean fingers, blue skies and sun. 

The question barely makes it through his throat, staring up at the younger - _much_ younger - man. “ _Why?_ ” 

“I think you know, Geralt.” He strokes the angle of his jaw, tracing over the beginnings of his beard regrowing already. "Gods - you _must_ know that I want you." 

His expression is one that causes Jaskier's brows to crease in sympathy, and press another kiss to the heated skin of his forehead - lingering there with his throat bared to Geralt's teeth. There's a sheen of sweat, in the hollow of it, and he watches Jaskier's throat bob in the warm flicker of candlelight and the crescendoing silence when he draws away. 

“Can you lie back for me?” 

It’s different. He doesn’t know how to describe the monumental shift but as _different_ when he lowers himself silently on his elbows, lets Jaskier guide him down with a hand curved around the nape of his neck - so close, vulnerable, fingers near his throat - and lays his head down. Looking up, still and silent and waiting. 

It nearly catches his breath, squeezes around his lungs and his heart when Jaskier plants his arms on either side of his face. Tugs on his stomach, when he pushes in so easily, guided by the slick mess of oil and spend, the give of his entrance after earlier use. And Jaskier looks at his face all the while, sees some minute flinches and relaxations that he’s not even aware of making, and slows and speeds himself in accordance with them. A soft pause with every catch of his breath, a gentle roll of his hips each time he catches his lip between his teeth to worry it. 

It’s a terrifying thing, being watched. Makes his heart pound as if he’s afraid. Raising from its normal beat, nearing a human rate in the thrill of it, banging insistently against his ribs and through his skin, palpable wherever his skin rests against Jaskier’s. There’s a great deal of those places, where warmth slides over warmth and sweat eases the glide, oil in other places and an acute sting of loss where he’s left uncovered by the slightness of Jaskier’s body atop his. 

It’s - strange. 

He feels small, smaller than he has any right to be in Jaskier’s arms, planted on either side of his face. The slow push of Jaskier’s hips into him, the pressure of his cock trapped between their bodies.

Warm. 

It’s warm, above all else, with the soft huff of Jaskier’s breath into his neck and the meeting of their hips, the brush of a torso between his thighs with each thrust of his whole body. When he lifts his hands, lays them silently on Jaskier’s back, he can feel the ripple of muscle pass through on each side of his spine. A languid roll of his hips forewarned by each bunch and release under his fingers, through smooth skin unscarred by illness or injury.

“So beautiful,” Jaskier murmurs, and leaves it at that. No long, exaggerated praises or laurels, and somehow it’s all the more incredible for it. This feels - this feels like a Jaskier who’s focused on one, singular thing.

“Not fucking _beautiful_ ,” he grunts. Tries to grunt, but Jaskier catches him with a slow push into that same area right as he speaks, and all that results of his effort is a broken gasp. 

“I’m n-not going to argue with you when my cock’s in your arse, you stubborn...” 

Jaskier’s half-scowl is back, softened by pleasure and the natural set of his face. He huffs, gives two thrusts in rapid succession; reaches back for Geralt’s thigh and struggles to lift it, sling it over the small of his back to pull them closer yet together. It feels good. Better than he deserves, better than he should ever feel doing this. 

“So listen to me when I tell you that you’re _perfect._ Fearsomely strong, and brave and - and _good._ ”

There’s nothing he can say to that. Nothing but a sharp inhale through the pain resting in the path of his air and a twitching movement of his thigh and calves, a desire to move closer. A wish - inadviseable, dangerous - wish to wrap his legs around his slim waist and be that touch more one with each other. To know him. Know the feeling of his words fanning over his ruined skin and his chest pressed into his own, smooth and perfect. Jaskier’s shaft filling him for the second time, burning hot and pulsing - or is he the one who’s blood beats strong? - between his legs, in the core of him. His cock drips in between them, wet and easing its own glide over the skin of his abdomen. Fully hard, and the pressure and heat of Jaskier thrusting into him feels like it could be enough - enough to push him over and into climax. 

“Look at you,” Jaskier breathes, and there’s a thick lust, a want, a hunger in his voice. 

“I - I’m -” 

“You don’t have to speak.” Jaskier’s hand is so warm, undaunted on his cheek, and his voice is even more so. “I don’t mind, Geralt. I understand.” 

His blue eyes stay fixed on his face. Searching his eyes, seemingly satisfied by what he sees in them - as if he can peer down into everything Geralt’s trying to say and choking on, stuttering over vocabulary he knows but has never had the chance to put into practice, and understand everything that he wants to put into words. 

The damn bard’s too kind for his own good. 

“Thank you.” 

It’s rough, when he manages it. It’s pitiful and meagre and trite, but it’s what he can give, and Jaskier - Jaskier’s shaky exhale and smile are worth the struggle of pulling the two words through his lungs and throat, tongue and lips. But he means it. Means it for Jaskier’s understanding, his acceptance, the gentle way he takes him and fucks him and holds him on a real bed, like he’s something worth loving. 

He closes his eyes, lets himself push into Jaskier’s thrusts and meet him halfway, and feels Jaskier’s mouth on his jaw, his throat, his shoulder. 

He lies there, lets himself be held in warmth and the comfort of a familiar scent, curls of brown hair brushing over the underside of his jaw. Lies there and takes it, lifts his leg like Jaskier wanted and feels him push deeper in response, flushed and handsome above him. Hair curling, darkening from brown to near black along the nape of his slim neck from the sweat and the still-lingering water - and when he rakes it back from his forehead, he’s one of the most truly beautiful people he’s known in all of his decades. 

And all of it, all of the innkeepers and curses and queens and child surprises get driven from his head by a litany of _Geralt, Geralt, Geralt_ ; and it sounds, smells, feels like something that could nearly be adoration. 

“Say my name, Geralt. _My_ witcher - just say it, I need -” 

He owes him that much. 

It’s rough and it’s hoarse, harsh when he tries to be anything but. When he stopped attempting, what he was born again to never be, and every lingering smouldering piece of it died faster under the tread of the world. And yet, his bard moans and buries himself deep - hips stilling and his soft lips resting warm against his own, rough and bitten red - in the silence after his voice. 

  
And the words pass through them like wine. 

“Jaskier - please, _Jas’_.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments always appreciated! ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ♡


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